World Enough
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: Near - Future Fic. I have now joined the ranks of those writing into LSD territory. A Little 2 shot on finding Olivia, and bringing her home. UPDATE: this has become a series of drabbles due to mild writer's block.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Ok, my muse seems to be unstoppable lately. I'm sorry this is so short, but consider it a sort of prologue for the actual one-shot (which would make this a 2 shot), that will be uploaded as soon as I finish it. It takes place in the not - here - fast - enough, next episode: LSD. it's just a little Peter - ramble to begin with, but you know you want to hit the button at the end of the page, you know you do!

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><p>Thinking back on it, he decided that it wasn't all that strange that – of all places, of all secret crevices in her mind – they'd find her <em>here.<em>

He'd never been there, to the actual place her subconscious had modeled the sterile white hallways after; but he'd recognized the location from the official reports she'd given about her captivity, after having memorized them word by damning word. To an outsider her words would have read as detached, professional, calculated to the point of scientific – like fact relaying in their excruciating precision. But Peter Bishop was not an outsider when it came to the woman in question, far from it. He might not have been able to recognize his mistakes as he was making them; too blinded by desire and the giddy feeling of finally being with her, after all they'd been through, that he'd ignored his instincts and the abundant little details of damning evidence that would have told him it wasn't _his_ Olivia he had been holding in his arms as he proceeded to let his dick do the thinking, but no one could deny that some very prominent part of him understood her, perhaps better than she sometimes understood herself, just as she did him. He'd had no trouble in seeing right through her calm, composed dissertations of the tortures his biological father had put her through, had had no trouble in noticing the pain – stained undertones that lay beneath the evenly spaced black characters printed on the plain white paper.

He had felt then, deep in his bones, what he guessed was but an infinitesimal part of the despair and the hopelessness that must have invaded her being, as it downed on him that, while she'd been held captive, in complete isolation, he'd been too preoccupied playing house with a woman that, to him, was but a shade of the person he planned to spend the rest of his days with, cheesy as it sounded. He didn't think he would ever forgive himself for it; he couldn't look past his own mistakes. They were alike like that, too good at beating themselves up for things they no longer had any control over. He called it character flaw, but loved her for it.

He'd once grown to love damaged things, broken and blemished, perhaps as egotistic, frivolous reflections of himself; and mayhap as just another facet of his limitless arrogance he'd thought he could fix them, somehow make them perfect. He found now, that even if he still loved them, broken as they were, he'd changed (that perhaps _she'd_ changed him, her presence unyielding as the sea itself, eroding his preconceptions of himself away with ease so natural that he considered it criminal), had come to the enlightened realization that, in truth, perfection was a human concept, and therefore flawed in itself. He'd never wanted to fix her, never would imagine her being someone different than what life had made her, hammered her into in it's white – hot furnace, because next to Olivia Dunham, sitting limply in his arms, surrounded by bleach – white walls in this prison she'd unwittingly made for herself, he found that perfection was terribly overrated.


	2. Chapter 2

He feels dizzy, the cold metallic needle of the syringe Astrid retrieves from the inside of his elbow sending shivers through him as the foreign substance starts to spread through his bloodstream. He swears he can almost feel it working its way to his head in a sluggish flow, like microscopic particles of burning coals that climb up the insides of his vascular system in the way of angry ants; he feels his vision go blurry for a second, and he screws his eyes shut to keep the sensation away, his head falling back into the chair as his body tries to fight the sudden wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him, beads of freezing cold sweat forming on his brow, and yet, he can feel his skin burning from the inside out. He briefly wonders if Walter somehow miscalculated; he has never liked drugs, much less overdosed before, but he suspects _this_ is what it might feel like.

"Breathe, son," he hears Walter say, his voice no more than an echo, distorted by his convoluted nervous system, making it seem as if they where standing miles instead of mere inches apart. He numbly, obediently, complies and releases a breath he must have been holding for a long time now, thinking vaguely, in an unfocused way, that the burning sensation in his chest might have diminished. He opens his eyes then, his pupils dilating to their maximum as Technicolor lights explode and dance in waves across the edges of his vision, in perfect synchronization to the rhythm of the heartbeat he can hear with clarity, feeling each pulsating pump on the back of his throat, the rush of blood akin to the deafening roar of being pulled under water in the midst of river rapids. He raises his hand, waves it across his eyes and catches every movement, every flick of the minimal muscular strain it induces into his tissue with the clarity of high – definition cameras when put in slow motion, eliciting a bubbly, uncharacteristically excited chuckle out of him. His mind manages to come to the conclusion that he is, indeed, drugged out of his mind.

He lets his head fall to the side, his eyes hooded, looking at the inert body of the comatose woman beside him, her hair pulled back into the neat ponytail that characterizes her, her eyes closed serenely, as if she were merely asleep, her expression so peaceful that it looks unnatural on her face. He sees, in his drug induced state, how light fleets across her skin, _from_ her skin, as if she were a beacon in the pitch black of the night, the wavelengths of her brilliance shifting, making her look otherworldly. He snorts incoherently at that, some still – conscious – enough part of his mind recognizing the irony of his statement but not the meaning of his vision.

His last thought before he falls unconscious is of how beautifully she glimmers.

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><p>AN: due to mild writer's block I've made this story into a series of drabbles, but it is still LSD territory and I'll try not to diverge much from it. tell me what you thought in the review section please!

and thanks for sticking with me.


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